Just finished "On Writing," which was sent to me by a former student. Can't imagine how I managed to miss this one, as I read virtually everything King publishes--but it's a delightful little book. Will post a comment here and there as I digest his oddly moving reflections on the craft. ("Oddly" because I didn't expect to read a love story when I picked up the book.)

First up: Bad Dialogue! Mr. King offered some wonderful examples of Bad Dialogue, but missed what I consider to be the single most spectacular example in popular literature--Mr. Renfield's measured and scholarly remarks from the floor of his cell at Dr. Seward's madhouse. First, to set the scene, Renfield is found savagely beaten...

"When I came to Renfield's room I found him lying on the floor on his left side in a glittering pool of blood. When I went to move him, it became at once apparent that he had received some ter- rible injuries; there seemed none of that unity of purpose be- tween the parts of the body which marks even lethargic sanity. As the face was exposed I could see that it was horribly bruised, as though it had been beaten against the floor. Indeed it was from the face wounds that the pool of blood originated. The at- tendant who was kneeling beside the body said to me as we turned him over: " I think, sir, his back is broken. See, both his right arm and leg and the whole side of his face are paralysed." How such a thing could have happened puzzled the attendant beyond measure."Then follow several paragraphs graphically conveying the many more brutal injuries Mr. Renfield has somehow suffered, his increasingly sterterous breathing and generally declining condition, and the last-minute decision by Van Helsing to open the poor man's skull to relieve the swelling pressure on the brain. This done, the patient delivers himself of the incredible oration which follows, complete with all the niceties of the Victorian drawing room on visiting day. Remember his condition, now...
"That is Dr. Van Helsing. How good it is of you to be here. Give me some water, my lips are dry; and I shall try to tell you. I dreamed" he stopped and seemed faulting, I called quietly to Quincey "The brandy it is in my study quick!" He flew and returned with a glass, the decanter of brandy and a carafe of water. We moistened the parched lips, and the patient quickly revived. It seemed, however, that his poor injured brain had been working in the interval, for, when he was quite conscious, he looked at me piercingly with an agonised confusion which I shall never forget, and said ; "I must not deceive myself; it was no dream, but all a grim reality." Then his eyes roved round the room; as they caught sight of the two figures sitting patiently on the edge of the bed he went on: "If I were not sure already, I would know from them." For an instant his eyes closed not with pain or sleep but voluntarily, as though he were bringing all his faculties to bear; when he opened them he said, hurriedly, and with more energy than he had yet displayed: "Quick, Doctor, quick. I am dying! I feel that I have but a few minutes; and then I must go back to death or worse! Wet my lips with brandy again. I have something that I must say before I die; or before my poor crushed brain dies anyhow. Thank you ! It was that night after you left me, when I implored you to let me go away. I couldn't speak then, for I felt my tongue was tied; but I was as sane then, except in that way, as I am now. I was in an agony of despair for a long time after you left me; it seemed hours. Then there came a sudden peace to me. My brain seemed to become cool again, and I realised where I was. I heard the dogs bark behind our house, but not where He was!" As he spoke, Van Helsing's eyes never blinked, but his hand came out and met mine and gripped it hard. He did not, however, betray himself; he nodded slightly and said: "Go on," in a low voice. Renfield proceeded: "He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him often before; but he was solid then not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like a man's when angry. He was laughing with his red mouth; the sharp white teeth glinted in the moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt of trees, to where the dogs were barking. I wouldn't ask him to come in at first, though I knew he wanted to just as he had wanted all along. Then hebegan promising me things not in words but by doing them." He was interrupted by a word from the Professor: "How?" "By making them happen; just as he used to send in the flies when the sun was shining. Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their wings; and big moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on their backs." Van Helsing nodded to him as he whispered to me unconsciously: "The Acherontia Aitetropos of the Sphinges what you call the 'Death's-head Moth'?" The patient went on without stopping. "Then he began to whisper: 'Rats, rats, rats! Hundreds, thou- sands, millions of them, and every one a life; and dogs to eat them, and cats too. All lives! all red blood, with years of life in it; and not merely buzzing flies!' I laughed at him, for I wanted to see what he could do. Then the dogs howled, away beyond the dark trees in His house. He beckoned me to the window. I got up and looked out, and He raised his hands, and seemed to call out without using any words. A dark mass spread over the grass, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire; and then He moved the mist to the right and left, and I could see that there were thousands of rats with their eyes blazing red like His, only smaller. He held up his hand, and they all stopped; and I thought he seemed to be saying: 'All these lives will I give you, ay, and many more and greater, through countless ages, if you will fall down and worship me!' And then a red cloud, like the colour of blood, seemed to close over my eyes; and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself opening the sash and saying to Him: 'Come in, Lord and Master!' The rats were all gone, but He slid into the room through the sash, though it was only open an inch wide just as the Moon herself has often come hi through the tiniest crack and has stood before me in all her size and splendour." His voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the brandy again, and he continued; but it seemed as though his memory had gone on working in the interval for his story was further advanced. I was about to call him back to the point, but Van Helsing whispered to me: "Let him go on. Do not interrupt him; he cannot go back, and maybe could not proceed at all if once he lost the thread of his thought." He proceeded: "All day I waited to hear from him, but he did not send me anything, not even a blow-fly, and when the moon got up I was pretty angry with him. When he slid in through the window, though it was shut, and did not even knock, I got mad with him. "He sneered at me, and his white face looked out of the mist with his red eyes gleaming, and he went on as though he owned the whole place, and I was no one. He didn't even smell the same as he went by me. I couldn't hold him. I thought that, somehow, Mrs. Harker had come into the room." The two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over, stand- ing behind him so that he could not see them, but where they could hear better. They were both silent, but the Professor started and quivered; his face, however, grew grimmer and sterner still. Renfield went on without noticing: "When Mrs. Harker came in to see me this afternoon she wasn't the same; it was like tea after the teapot had been wa- tered." Here we all moved, but no one said a word; he went on: "I didn't know that she was here till she spoke; and she didn't look the same. I don't care for the pale people; I like them with lots of blood in them, and hers had all seemed to have run out. I didn't think of it at the time; but when she went away I began to think, and it made me mad to know that He had been taking the life out of her." I could feel that the rest quivered, as I did? but we remained otherwise still. "So when He came to-night 1 was ready for Him. I saw the mist stealing in, and I grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and as I knew I was a madman at times anyhow I resolved to use my power. Ay, and He felt it too, for He had to come out of -the mist to struggle with me. I held tight; and I thought I was going to win, for I didn't mean Him to take any more of her life, till I saw His eyes. They burned into me, and my strength be- came like water. He slipped through it, and when I tried to cling to Him, He raised me up and flung me down. There was a red cloud before me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist seemed to steal away under the door."No doubt there are finer examples out there somewhere, in the world of obscure or unpublished writing--but I challenge anyone to top this ludicrous outburst from a book that anyone's ever heard of. (I'll grant you Taylor Caldwell as a possibility--but other than her...)

March 25th, 2013

Sepia and Dust

Re: On "On Writing"

Walls of text are hard to read. Perhaps if you pointed out specific passages?

March 25th, 2013

Sundrop

Re: On "On Writing"

Welcome! Glad you're enjoying On Writing.
Forgive me for not reading past the first couple of lines, as I haven't yet read the book and I didn't want to risk spoiling anything for myself in case you were referencing passages from the book.

March 26th, 2013

GNTLGNT

Re: On "On Writing"

...it really is a Bible for writers....

May 9th, 2013

Diane Klekotka

Re: On "On Writing"

blocks of text aren't friendly. sorry. I'm old. My eyes aren't what they were. I should get up and get my glasses. I chose rahter to be lazy and just make the text big. This means blocks of text become even more unfriendly. Give us a break at dialogue points. That would make it easier.

Can you edit? Can I edit? I'm such a newbie. My apologies for the critique.

I very much enjoyed this book. It is what brought me here.

I could not tell you the first Stephen King book I read. Too long ago. "CARRIE" was my first Stephen King movie. I went by myself. I sat in the balcony by myself so I could sneak cigarettes. I jumped so high out of that seat. I was so pissed at myself for seeing that movie all by myself. It's funny now, of course.
Stephen King has been amazing for a very long time.

June 10th, 2013

morgan

Re: On "On Writing"

When Simon & Schuster used to have a SK message board, I would visit from time to time. I actually won my copy of On Writing through an on-line promotion! That is the hands-down best "win" of my life. A great memory-sometimes life is good (but, Sometimes They Come Back!)! :eek2: Sorry-I couldn't help myself!

September 15th, 2013

frankpaqu

Re: On "On Writing"

I have just finished reading "Stephen King | On Writing. I also expected something else. At first, I wasn't sure I would be able to read through, as I was looking for something to aid me in completing the book my son and I started several years ago. Although, my admiration and respect for Mr. King was enough to encourage the read. Once I had completed the first thirty or forty pages, I found it difficult to put it down. It would not have been possible for me to have found a more inspirational or useful tool. I had just finished reading Strunk's Elements of Style and was pleased to hear Mr. King make positive references to the text. I am not a professional writer and have never been published, yet, I have always had a deep love for the craft. I have written lyrics to a few songs, a few poems over the years and even a few stories. The desire and passion to write, create, even become a part of the story as it grows has always been a part of me. I am not certain which category of writer that I fall into, as mentioned in the book, although, my love for the craft will always endure. Thank You for an honest, down to earth lesson that will assuredly imprint itself into my mind and soul.

September 16th, 2013

staropeace

Re: On "On Writing"

This book should be required reading in every High School or University.

September 24th, 2013

Mr Nobody

Re: On "On Writing"

Quote:

Originally Posted by GNTLGNT

...it really is a Bible for writers....

It's certainly mine. I've said before how I read it in one sitting first time around (bought it at lunchtime, turned to page one after finishing my sandwich, next time I looked up it was dark outside and I was left wondering where the afternoon went).
I must've read it another 3-4 times since then, and skim through chapters when 'blocked', or doubtful of the story, or having one of those existential "Yes...but why do I feel the need to write and am I really any good?" or "What does it all mean, in the long run? What's the point of it?" moments (I'm having a lot more of those as the years roll by. It's getting pretty horrible).
A quick revisit to On Writing usually sorts things out. 95% of the time I come away with belief restored and vigour renewed (ready to kick ass and take names, as someone or other wrote...)

September 26th, 2013

Gruesome

Re: On "On Writing"

I love this work. However, I've never actually read it. My version was a book on tape (actually CD), read by the author.